(  LIBRARY  } 

I  U).i     ...i.  OF  I 

I  CALIhOW.HA  I 

I  SAM  mmo  I 


eon 


Leslie  Stephen 
From  a  photograph  by  Elliott  &  Fry 


'^M 


IRobert  %ome  Stevcneon 


I  Icslic  Srepbcn 


"Iftew  ^ovk  an^  XonSon 

0.  IP.  putnam'6  Sons 

"Cbe  IRnfcftcrbocfter  ipresa 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


ROBERT  LOUIS   STKVKNSON 

NEARLY  thirty  years  have  passed 
since  Stevenson  began  to  attract  a 
circle  of  appreciative  readers.  From  the 
first  it  was  clear  that  the  literary  appreci- 
ation coincided  with  a  personal  attraction. 
As  his  fame  extended,  the  admiration  of 
readers  remotest  in  the  flesh  had  a  tinge 
of  friendship,  while  the  inner  circle  could 
not  distinguish  between  their  enthusiastic 
affection  for  the  man  and  their  cordial 
enjoyment  of  his  genius.  So  far  as  the 
biographer  is  concerned,  the  identity  of 
the  two  sentiments  is  a  clear  gain.  Affec- 
tion, though  not  a  sufficient,  is  an  almost 
necessary  qualification  for  a  good  bio- 
graphy. It  may  be  doubted,  however, 
3 


4  IRobevt  Xouis  Stevenson 

whether  a  man's  friends  are  his  best 
critics.  The  keen  eye  of  the  candid  out- 
sider has  detected  a  tacit  conspiracy  in 
this  case.  The  circle  of  friends  looks  un- 
pleasantly like  a  clique,  trying  to  gain  a 
reflex  glory  from  the  fame  of  its  hero,  or 
to  make  a  boast  of  its  superior  insight. 

The  connection,  it  is  true,  has  other 
dangers.  The  tie  may  be  broken,  and  the 
rupture,  it  appears,  cancels  all  obligations 
to  reticence.  No  one  can  then  lay  on  the 
lash  like  the  old  friend  who  knows  the 
weak  places  and  has,  or  fancies  that  he 
has,  an  injury  to  resent.  The  bitterness 
may  be  intelligible,  and  therefore,  per- 
haps, we  should  excuse  a  man  for  reliev- 
ing his  feelings  after  this  peculiar  fashion. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  think  the  result  edi- 
fying; but  I  make  no  further  comment. 
I  would  rather  observe  that  fidelity  to  old 
ties  is  not  necessarily  blinding.  No  one 
can    read   Mr.    C.!\i:.'s    notes    upon    his 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  5 

friend's  letters  without  admitting  that  his 
friendship  has  sharpened  his  insight.  To 
him  belongs  the  credit  of  having  been  the 
first,  outside  the  home  circle,  to  recognise 
Stevenson's  genius  and  to  give  encourage- 
ment when  encouragement  was  most 
needed.  The  keen  interest  enabled  him 
to  interpret  both  the  personal  and  the 
artistic  characteristics  of  his  friend  with  a 
clearness  which  satisfies  us  of  the  essential 
fidelity  of  the  portrait.  If  we  differ  from 
the  valuation  which  he  puts  upon  certain 
qualities,  he  gives  essential  help  to  per- 
ceiving them.  We  often  learn  more  from 
the  partisan  than  from  the  candid  his- 
torian; and  in  criticism,  as  well  as  in 
histor}^,  candour  may  be  an  alias  for  in- 
sensibility. 

It  is  to  Mr.  Colvin  that  I  owe  what 
is  perhaps  m3^  chief  claim  to  such  respect 
as  readers  of  a  periodical  may  concede  to 
an   editor.       Through    his    good   ofiices, 


6  TRobert  %ouis  Stevenson 

Stevenson  became  one  of  my  contributors, 
and  I  may  be  allowed  to  boast  that,  in  his 
case  at  least,  I  did  not  nip  rising  genius 
in  the  bud — the  feat  which,  according  to 
some  young  authors,  represents  the  main 
desire  of  the  editorial  mind.  Fate,  how- 
ever, withheld  from  me  the  privilege  of 
forming  such  an  intimacy  as  could  ma- 
teriall}^  bias  my  opinions.  So  far  I  have 
a  negative  qualification  for  answering  the 
question  which  so  many  people  are  eager 
to  put:  what,  namely,  will  posterity  think 
about  Stevenson  ?  I  am  content  to  leave 
the  point  to  posterity;  but  in  trying  to 
sum  up  ni}'  own  impressions,  corrected  by 
the  judgment  of  his  closer  friends  and 
critics,  I  may  contribute  to  the  discussion 
of  the  previous  question:  what  was  the 
species,  not  what  was  the  degree,  of  praise 
which  he  will  receive  ?  Friendly  criticism 
is  apt  to  fail  in  this  direction.  Enthusi- 
asts fancy  that  to  define  a  man's  proper 


IRobert  %oui6  Stevenson  7 

sphere  is  to  limit  his  merits;  they  assume 
that  other  sects  are  necessaril}^  hostile, 
and  that  they  must  remove  one  bust  from 
Poet's  Corner  in  order  to  make  room  for 
doing  honour  to  their  favourite.  Such 
controversies  lead  to  impossible  problems, 
and  attempts  to  find  a  common  measure 
for  disparate  qualities.  We  may  surely 
by  this  time  agree  that  Tennyson  and 
Browning  excelled  in  different  lines  with- 
out asking  which  line  was  absolutely  best. 
That  will  always  be  a  matter  of  individual 
taste. 

Whatever  Stev^enson  was,  he  was,  I 
think,  a  man  of  genius.  I  do  not  mean 
to  bring  him  under  any  strict  definition. 
My  own  conception  of  genius  has  been 
formed  b}^  an  induction  from  the  very  few 
cases  which  I  have  been  fortunate  enough 
to  observe.  I  may  try  to  describe  one 
characteristic  by  perverting  the  language 
of  one  of  those  instances.     The  late  W. 


8  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

K.  Clifford,  who  had  the  most  unmistak- 
able stamp  of  genius,  held  that  the  uni- 
verse was  composed  of  * '  mindstuff. ' '  I 
don't  know  how  that  may  be,  but  a  man 
has  genius,  I  should  say,  when  he  seems 
to  be  made  of  nothing  but  "  mindstuff." 
We  of  coarser  make  have  a  certain  in- 
fusion of  mind;  but  it  is  terribl}^  cramped 
and  held  down  b}^  matter.  What  we  call 
"  thinking  "  is  often  a  mechanical  process 
carried  on  by  dead  formulae.  We  work 
out  results  as  a  phonograph  repeats  the 
sound  when  you  insert  the  diaphragm 
already  impressed  with  the  pattern.  The 
mental  processes  in  the  man  of  genius  are 
still  vital  instead  of  being  automatic.  He 
has,  as  Carlyle  is  fond  of  repeating  about 
Mirabeau,  "swallowed  all  formulas,"  or 
rather,  he  is  not  the  slave  but  the  master 
of  those  useful  intellectual  tools.  It  is 
this  pervading  vitality  which  has  marked 
such  geniuses  as  I  have  known,  though 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  9 

it  assumes  very  various  forms.  A  propo- 
sition of  Euclid  such  as  "coaches" 
hammer  into  the  head  of  a  dunce  to  be  re- 
produced by  rote  developed  instantly, 
when  inserted  into  Clifford's  hearer,  into 
whole  systems  of  geometry.  Genius  of  a 
different  tj^pe  was  shown  by  the  historian 
J.  R.  Green.  You  pointed  out  a  bit  of  old 
wall,  or  a  slope  of  down,  and  it  immedi- 
ately opened  to  him  a  vista  of  past  ages, 
illustrating  bygone  social  states  and  the 
growth  of  nations.  So  Stevenson  heard 
an  anecdote  and  it  became  at  once  the 
nucleus  of  a  story,  and  he  was  on  the  spot 
a  hero  of  romance  plunging  into  a  whole 
series  of  thrilling  adventures.  Connected 
with  this,  I  suppose,  is  the  invincible 
boyishness  so  often  noticed  as  a  charac- 
teristic of  genius.  The  mind  which  re- 
tains its  freshness  can  sympathise  with 
the  child  to  whom  the  world  is  still  a 
novelty.     Both  Clifford  and  Green  w^ere 


lo  IRoljert  Xouis  Stevenson 

conspicuous  for  this  possession  of  the  pre- 
rogative of  genius,  and  showed  it  both  in 
being  boyish  themselves  and  in  their  in- 
tense sympathy  with  children.  Clifford 
was  never  happier  than  in  a  child's  party, 
and  Green  sought  relief  from  the  dreari- 
ness of  a  clergyman's  life  at  the  Kast-End 
by  associating  with  the  children  of  the 
district.  Stevenson's  boyishness  was  not 
only  conspicuous,  but  was  the  very  main- 
spring of  his  best  w^ork.  That  quality 
cannot  be  shown  in  a  mathematical  dis- 
sertation or  an  historical  narrative,  but  it 
is  invaluable  for  a  writer  of  romances. 
The  singular  vivacity  of  Stevenson's 
early  memories  is  shown  by  Mr.  Balfour's 
account  of  his  infancy  as  it  was  sufl&ciently 
revealed  in  the  delightful  Child' s  Gardeii. 
It  is  amusing  to  note  that  Stevenson 
could  not  even  imagine  that  other  men 
should  be  without  this  experience.  You 
are  indulging  in  "wilful  paradox,"   he 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  n 

replied  to  Mr.  Henry  James.  "If  a  man 
have  never  been ' '  (Mr.  James  alleged 
that  he  had  not  been)  ' '  on  a  quest  for 
hidden  treasure,  it  can  be  demonstrated 
that  he  has  never  been  a  child."  His 
scheme  of  life,  as  he  puts  it  in  a  charming 
letter  to  Mr.  Monkhouse,  was  to  be  alter- 
nately a  pirate  and  a  leader  of  irregular 
cavalry  "devastating  whole  valleys." 
Some  of  us,  I  fear,  have  never  been 
pirates;  and  if  we  were  anything,  were 
perhaps  already  preaching  infantile  ser- 
mons. In  any  case,  the  castle-building 
propensity  is  often  so  weak  as  not  even 
to  leave  a  trace  in  memory.  Stevenson's 
most  obvious  peculiarity  was  that  it  only 
strengthened  with  life,  and,  which  is 
rarer,  always  retained  some  of  the  child- 
ish colouring. 

A  common  test — for  it  is  surely  not  the 
essence — of  genius  is  the  proverbial  ca- 
pacity for  taking  pains.     Stevenson  again 


12  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

illustrates  the  meaning  of  the  remark. 
Nothing  is  easier,  says  a  recent  German 
philosopher,  than  to  give  a  receipt  for 
making  yourself  a  good  novelist.  Write 
a  hundred  drafts,  none  of  them  above  two 
pages  long:  let  each  be  so  expressed  that 
every  word  is  necessar}-:  practise  putting 
anecdotes  into  the  most  pregnant  and 
effective  shapes;  and  after  ten  3'ears  de- 
voted to  these  and  various  subsidiary 
studies,  you  will  have  completed  your 
apprenticeship.  Few  novelists,  I  sup- 
pose, carry  out  this  scheme  to  the  letter; 
but  Stevenson  might  have  approved  the 
spirit  of  the  advice.  Nobody  would  adopt 
it  unless  he  had  the  passion  for  the  art, 
which  is  a  presumption  of  genius,  and 
without  genius  the  labour  would  be 
wasted.  That,  indeed,  raises  one  of 
those  points  which  are  so  delightful  to 
discuss  because  they  admit  of  no  precise 
solution.      When     people    ask    whether 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  13 

*'form"  or  "content,"  style  or  matter 
be  the  most  important,  it  is  like  asking 
whether  order  or  progress  should  be  the 
aim  of  a  statesman,  or  whether  strength 
or  activity  be  most  needed  for  an  athlete. 
Both  are  essential,  and  neither  excellence 
will  supersede  necessity  for  the  other.  If 
you  have  nothing  to  say,  there  is  no  man- 
ner of  saying  it  well ;  and  if  not  well  said, 
your  something  is  as  good  as  nothing. 

For  Stevenson,  the  question  of  style 
was  the  most  pressing.  His  mind  was 
already,  as  it  continued  to  be,  swarming 
with  any  number  of  projects;  he  was  al- 
ways acting  ''  some  fragment  from  his 
dream  of  human  life  "  ;  the  storehouse  of 
his  imagination  was  full  to  overflowing, 
and  the  question  was  not  what  to  say  but 
how  to  say  it.  Moreover,  a  singular  deli- 
cacy of  organisation  gave  him  a  love  of 
words  for  their  own  sake ;  the  mere  sound 
of  ' '  Jehovah  Tsidkenu  ' '  gave  him  a  thrill 


14  IRobcct  %o\xi6  Stevenson 

(it  does  not  thrill  me!);  he  was  sensitive 
from  childhood  to  assonance  and  allitera- 
tion, and  in  his  later  essay  upon  the 
Technical  Elements  of  Style  shows  how 
a  sentence  in  the  Areopagitica  involves  a 
cunning  use  of  the  letters  P  V  F.  Lan- 
guage, in  short,  had  to  him  a  music  in- 
dependently of  its  meaning.  That,  no 
doubt,  is  one  element  of  literary  effect, 
though  without  a  fine  ear  it  would  be 
hopeless  to  decide  what  pleases;  and  the 
finest  ear  cannot  lay  down  the  conditions 
of  pleasing.  This  precocious  sensitive- 
ness developed  into  a  clear  appreciation 
of  various  qualities  of  style.  Like  other 
young  men,  he  began  by  imitating;  tak- 
ing for  models  such  curiously  different 
writers  as  Hazlitt,  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
Defoe,  Hawthorne,  Montaigne,  Beaude- 
laire,  and  Ruskin.  In  the  ordinary  cases 
imitation  implies  that  the  model  is  taken 
as  a  master.     Milton  probably  meant,  in 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevcngon  15 

youth,  to  be  a  second  Spenser.  But  the 
variety  of  Stevenson's  models  implies  an 
absence  of  strict  discipleship.  He  was 
trying  to  discover  the  secret  which  gave 
distinction  to  any  particular  style;  and 
without  adopting  the  manner  would  know 
how  to  apply  it  on  occasion  for  any  de- 
sired effect.  How  impressionable  he  was 
is  curiously  shown  by  his  statement  to- 
wards the  end  of  his  life,  that  he  would 
not  read  L,ivy  for  fear  of  the  effect  upon 
his  style.  He  had  long  before  acquired 
a  style  of  his  own  so  distinctive  that  such 
a  danger  would  strike  no  one  else.  I  will 
not  dwell  upon  its  merits.  They  have 
been  set  forth,  far  better  than  I  could  hope 
to  do,  in  Professor  Raleigh's  admirable 
study.  He  is  a  critic  who  shares  the  per- 
ceptiveness  of  his  author.  I  will  only 
note  one  point.  A  *'  stylist"  sometimes 
becomes  a  mannerist;  he  acquires  tricks 
of  speech  which  intrude  themselves  inap- 


i6  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

propriately.  Stevenson's  general  freedom 
from  this  fault  implies  that  hatred  to  the 
commonplace  formula  of  which  I  have 
spoken.  His  words  are  always  alive. 
He  came  to  insist  chiefly  upon  the  im- 
portance of  condensation.  ''  There  is 
but  one  art,"  he  says,  *'  the  art  to  omit  "  ; 
or,  as  Pope  puts  it,  perhaps  more  ac- 
curately, "  the  last  and  greatest  art"  is 
''the  art  to  blot."  That  is  a  corollary 
from  the  theory  of  the  right  word.  A 
writer  is  an  "  amateur,"  says  Stevenson, 
' '  who  says  in  two  sentences  what  can  be 
said  in  one."  The  artist  puts  his  whole 
meaning  into  one  perfectly  accurate  line, 
while  a  feebler  hand  tries  to  correct  one 
error  by  superposing  another,  and  ends 
by  making  a  blur  of  the  whole. 

Stevenson, by  whatever  means,  acquired 
not  only  a  delicate  style,  but  a  style  of  his 
own.  If  it  sometimes  reminds  one  of 
models,    it  does  not   suggest  that  he  is 


IRobert  Xoul0  Stevenson  17 

speaking  in  a  feigned  voice.  I  think,  in- 
deed, that  this  precocious  preoccupation 
with  stj^le  suggests  an  excess  of  self-con- 
sciousness; a  daintiness  which  does  not 
allow  us  to  forget  the  presence  of  the 
artist.  But  Stevenson  did  not  yield  to 
other  temptations  which  beset  the  lover 
of  exquisite  form.  He  was  no  "aesthete ' ' 
in  the  sense  which  conveys  a  reproach. 
He  did  not  sympathise  with  the  doctrine 
that  an  artist  should  wrap  up  himself  in 
luxurious  hedonism  and  cultivate  indiffer- 
ence to  active  life.  He  was  too  much  of 
a  boy.  A  true  boy  cannot  be  "aesthetic." 
He  had  "  day-dreams,"  but  they  were  of 
piracy;  tacit  aspirations  toward  stirring 
adventure  and  active  heroism.  He  dreams 
of  a  future  waking.  Stevenson's  energies 
had  to  take  the  form  of  writing;  and 
though  he  talks  about  his  "  art  "  a  little 
more  solemnly  than  one  would  wish,  he 
betrays   a   certain    hesitation   as    to    its 


i8  IRobect  Xoui3  Stevenson 

claims.  In  a  late  essay,  he  suggests  that 
a  man  who  has  failed  in  literature  should 
take  to  some  "  more  manly  way  of  life." 
To  "  live  by  pleasure,"  he  declares,  *'is 
not  a  high  calling";  and  he  illustrates 
the  proposition  b}'  speaking  of  such  a  life 
(not  quite  seriously)  as  a  kind  of  intel- 
lectual prostitution.  He  laments  his  dis- 
qualification for  active  duties.  ' '  I  think 
David  Balfoicr  a  nice  little  book,"  he 
says,  '  'and  very  artistic  and  just  the  thing 
to  occup}'  the  leisure  of  a  busy  life;  but 
for  the  top  flower  of  a  man's  life  it  seems 
to  be  inadequate.  ...  I  could  have 
wished  to  be  otherwise  busy  in  this 
world.  I  ought  to  have  been  able  to 
build  light  houses  and  write  David  Bal- 
four s  ioo.''  This  may  be  considered  as 
the  legitimate  outcome  of  the  boyish 
mood.  It  might  have  indicated  a  bud- 
ding Nelson  instead  of  a  budding  writer 
of  romance. 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  19 

One  result  was  the  curious  misunder- 
standing set  forth  in  the  interesting  let- 
ters to  Mr.  William  Archer.  Mr.  Archer 
had  pleased  him  by  an  early  appreciation; 
but  had — as  Stevenson  complains — taken 
him  for  a  ''  rosy-gilled  sesthetico- aes- 
thete"; whereas  he  was  really  at  this 
time  a  ''  rickety  and  cloistered  spectre." 
To  Mr.  Archer  Stevenson's  optimism 
had  seemed  to  indicate  superabundant 
health  and  a  want  of  familiarity  with  sor- 
row and  sickness.  A  rheumatic  fever,  it 
was  suggested,  would  try  his  philosophy. 
Mr.  Archer's  hypothesis  (if  fairly  re- 
ported) was  of  course  the  reverse  of  the 
fact.  Stevenson's  whole  career  was  a 
heroic  struggle  against  disease,  and  it  is 
needless  to  add  that  his  sympathy  with 
other  sufferers  was  such  as  became  an 
exquisitely  sensitive  nature.  Neither 
would  he  admit  that  he  overlooked  the 
enormous  mass  of  evil  in  the  world.     His 


20  iRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

view  is  characteristic.  His  own  position 
as  an  invalid,  with  "the  circle  of  im- 
potence closing  very  slowly  but  quite 
steadily  round  him,"  makes  him  indig- 
nant with  the  affectation  of  the  rich  and 
strong  "  bleating  about  their  sorrows  and 
the  burthen  of  life."  In  a  world  so  full 
of  evil  "  one  dank  and  dispirited  word" 
is  harmful,  and  it  is  the  business  of  art 
to  present  ga}^  and  bright  pictures  which 
may  send  the  reader  on  his  way  rejoicing. 
Then  ingeniously  turning  the  tables,  he 
argues  that  Mr.  Archer's  acceptance  of 
pessimism  shows  him  to  be  a  happy  man, 
"  raging  at  the  misery  of  others."  Had 
his  critic  tried  for  himself  "  what  unhap- 
piness  was  like,"  he  would  have  found 
how  much  compensation  it  contains.  He 
admits  the  correctness  of  one  of  ,Mr. 
Archer's  remarks,  that  he  has  "  a  volun- 
tar}^  aversion  from  the  painful  sides  of 
life."     On  the  voyage  to  the  leper  settle- 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  21 

ment  at  Molokai  he  speaks  of  the  Zola 
view  of  the  human  animal;  and  upon 
reaching  the  place  sees  ''  sights  that  can- 
not be  told  and  hears  stories  that  cannot 
be  repeated."  M.  Zola  would  have  man- 
aged perhaps  to  tell  and  repeat.  Steven- 
son is  sickened  by  the  spectacle  but 
**  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  sight  of 
lovely  and  effective  virtues  in  the  help- 
less. ' '  The  background  of  the  loathsome 
is  there;  but  he  would  rather  dwell  upon 
the  moral  beauty  relieved  against  it. 

Stevenson  might  certainl}^  claim  that 
his  optimism  did  not  imply  want  of  ex- 
perience or  want  of  sympathy.  And, 
indeed,  one  is  inclined  to  ask  why  the 
question  should  be  raised  at  all.  A  man 
must  be  a  very  determined  pessimist  if  he 
thinks  it  wrong  for  an  artist  to  express 
moods  of  cheerfulness  or  the  simple  joy 
of  eventful  living.  We  may  surely  be 
allowed  to  be  sometimes  in  high  spirits. 


22  iRobert  Xoui6  Stevenson 

It  would  require  some  courage  to  infer 
from  Treasiwe  Isla?id  that  the  author  held 
any  philosophy.  Stevenson,  of  course, 
was  not  a  philosopher  in  such  a  sense  as 
would  have  entitled  him  to  succeed  to  the 
chair  of  Sir  William  Hamilton  at  Edin- 
burgh. Yet  it  is  true  that  he  had  some 
ver}^  strong  and  very  characteristic  con- 
victions upon  the  questions  in  which  phi- 
losophy touches  the  conduct  of  life.  The 
early  difficulties,  the  abandonment  of  the 
regular  professional  careers,  the  revolt 
against  the  yoke  of  the  lesser  catechism, 
the  sentence  to  a  life  of  invalidism  en- 
forced much  reflection,  some  results  of 
which  are  embodied  in  various  essay's. 
A  curious  indication  of  the  progress  of 
thought  is  given  in  his  account  of  the 
**  books  which  influenced  him."  It  is  a 
strangely  miscellaneous  list.  He  begins 
with  Shakespeare,  Dumas,  and  Bunyan; 
then  comes  Montaigne,  always  a  favour- 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  23 

ite;  next,  ''  in  order  of  time, "  the  Gospel 
according  to  St.  Matthew;  and  then  Walt 
Whitman.  By  an  odd  transition  (as  he 
observes  elsewhere)  Walt  Whitman's  in- 
fluence blends  with  that  of  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer.  ' '  I  should  be  much  of  a  hound, ' ' 
he  says,  "  if  I  lost  my  gratitude  to  Herbert 
Spencer."  Next  comes  Lewes' s  Life  of 
Goethe — though  there  is  no  one  whom  he 
''less  admires  than  Goethe."  Martial, 
Marcus  Aurelius,  Wordsworth,  and  Mr, 
G.  Meredith's  Egoist  follow,  and  he  notes 
that  an  essay  of  Hazlitt  ' '  on  the  spirit  of 
obligation"  formed  a  "turning-point  in 
his  life. ' '  One  would  have  been  glad  of 
a  comment  upon  the  last,  for  the  essay  is 
one  in  which  Hazlitt  shows  his  most  cyn- 
ical side,  and  explains  how  frequently 
envy  and  selfishness  are  concealed  under 
a  pretence  of  conferring  obligations. 
Stevenson,  perhaps,  took  it  as  he  took 
Mr.  Meredith's  novel,  for  an  ethical  lee- 


24  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

ture,  revealing  the  Protean  forms  of  ego- 
ism more  or  less  common  to  us  all. 

Stevenson  clearly  was  not  one  of  the 
young  gentlemen  who  get  up  a  subject 
systematically.  He  read  as  chance  and 
curiosity  dictated.  A  new  author  did  not 
help  him  to  fill  up  gaps  in  a  theory;  but 
became  a  personal  friend,  throwing  out 
pregnant  hints  and  suggesting  rapid 
glances  from  various  points  of  view  into 
different  aspects  of  life.  Each  writer  in 
turn  carried  on  a  lively  and  suggestive 
conversation  with  him;  but  he  cares  little 
for  putting  their  remarks  into  the  frame- 
work of  an  abstract  theory.  He  does  not 
profess  to  form  any  judgment  of  Mr. 
Spencer's  system;  he  is  content  to  find 
him  "  bracing,  manly,  and  honest."  He 
feels  the  ethical  stimulant.  He  is  at- 
tracted by  all  writers  whose  words  have 
the  ring  of  genuine  first-hand  conviction; 
who  reveal  their  own  souls — with  a  o:ood 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  25 

many  defects,  it  may  be,  but  at  least 
bring  one  into  contact  with  a  bit  of  real, 
unsophisticated  human  nature.  He  can 
forgive  Walt  Whitman's  want  of  form, 
and  rejoice  in  the  *  *  barbaric  yawp ' '  which 
utterly  rejects  and  denounces  effete  con- 
ventionalism. What  he  hates  above  all 
is  the  Pharisee.  **  Respectability,"  he 
says  in  Lay  Mo7'als^  is  "  the  deadliest  gag 
and  wet  blanket  that  can  be  laid  on  man." 
He  is,  that  is  to  say,  a  Bohemian;  but  he 
is  a  Bohemian  who  is  tempered  for  good 
or  (as  some  critics  would  say)  for  bad  by 
morality  and  the  lesser  catechism.  He 
sympathises  with  Whitman's  combination 
of  egoism  and  altruism.  '*  Morality  has 
been  ceremoniously  extruded  at  the  door 
(by  Whitman)  only  to  be  brought  in 
again  by  the  window."  So  Stevenson's 
Bohemianism  only  modifies  without  ob- 
literating his  moral  prejudices.  Scots- 
man as  he  was  to  the  verge  of  fanaticism, 


26  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

he  refused  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  coarser 
elements  in  the  national  idol.  The  Lay 
Morals  is  specially  concerned  with  the 
danger  of  debasing  the  moral  currency. 
In  spirit  the  Christian  principles  are  ab- 
solutely right;  but  as  soon  as  they  are 
converted  into  an  outward  law,  the  spirit 
tends  to  be  superseded  by  the  letter,  and 
the  hypocrite  finds  a  convenient  shelter 
under  the  formula  which  has  parted  com- 
pany from  the  true  purpose.  An  inter- 
esting bit  of  autobiography  is  made  to 
illustrate  the  point.  *'  Thou  shalt  not 
steal,"  he  says,  is  a  good  rule;  but  what 
is  stealing  ?  Something  is  to  be  said  for 
the  communist  theory  that  property  is 
theft.  While  his  father  was  supporting 
him  at  the  University,  where  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  fellow-students  whose  lives 
were  cramped  by  povert}',  he  considered 
that  his  allowance  could  be  excusable 
onl}'  when  regarded  as  a  loan  advanced 


IRobert  TLouls  Stevenson  27 

by  mankind.  He  lived  as  sparingly  as 
he  could,  grudged  himself  all  but  neces- 
saries, and  hoped  that  in  time  he  might 
repay  the  debt  by  his  services. 

No  very  definite  conclusion  was  to 
emerge  from  such  speculation.  Steven- 
son was  to  become  a  novelist,  not  a  writer 
of  systematic  treatises  upon  ethics  or  so- 
ciology. The  impulses,  however,  sur- 
vived in  various  forms.  They  are  shown, 
for  example,  in  the  striking  essay  called 
Pulvis  et  Umbra.  It  is  his  answer  to  the 
pessimistic  view  of  men  considered  as 
merely  multiplying  and  struggling  units. 
Everywhere  we  find  that  man  has  yet 
aspirations  and  imperfect  virtues.  "  Of 
all  earth's  meteors,"  he  says,  ''here,  at 
least,  is  the  most  strange  and  consoling; 
that  this  ennobled  lemur,  this  hair- 
crowned  bubble  of  the  dust,  this  inheritor 
of  a  few  years  and  sorrows,  should  yet 
deny  himself  his  rare  delights  and  add  to 


28  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

his  frequent  pains  and  live  for  an  ideal, 
however  misconceived."  This  view  im- 
plies his  sj^mpathy  with  the  publican  as 
against  the  Pharisee.  We  should  cherish 
whatever  aspirations  may  exist,  even  in 
the  pot-house  or  the  brothel,  instead  of 
simply  enforcing  conformity  to  the  law. 
We  should  like  the  outcast  because  he  is, 
after  all,  the  really  virtuous  person.  To 
teach  a  man  blindly  to  obey  public  opin- 
ion is  to  '*  discredit  in  his  eyes  the  one 
authoritative  voice  of  his  own  soul.  He 
may  be  a  docile  citizen ;  he  will  never  be 
a  man."  The  sanctity  of  the  individual 
in  this  sense  explains,  perhaps,  what  was 
the  teaching  in  which  Walt  Whitman  and 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  seemed  to  him  to 
coincide. 

The  "philosophy"  is  the  man.  It  is 
the  development  of  the  old  boyish  senti- 
ment. Disease  and  trouble  might  do 
their  worst;  the  career  of  the  "  pirate," 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  29 

or  even  more  creditable  forms  of  the  ad- 
venturous, might  be  impracticable;  but 
at  least  he  could  meet  life  gallantly,  find 
inexhaustible  interest  even  in  trifling  oc- 
cupations when  thrown  upon  his  back 
by  ill-health,  and  cheer  himself  against 
temptations  to  pessimistic  melancholy  by 
sympathy  with  every  human  being  who 
showed  a  touch  of  the  heroic  spirit.  His 
essay  upon  the  old  Admirals  is  character- 
istic. His  heart  goes  out  to  Nelson,  with 
his  "peerage  or  Westminster  Abbe}^" 
and  even  more  to  the  four  marines  of  the 
Wager ^  abandoned  of  necessity  to  a  cer- 
tain death,  but  who  yet,  as  they  watched 
their  comrades  pulling  away,  gave  three 
cheers  and  cried,  "God  bless  the  King!  " 
In  Ais  Triplex  he  gives  the  same  moral 
with  a  closer  application  to  himself: 

"  It  is  best,"  he  says,  "  to  begin  your 
folio;  even  if  the  doctor  does  not  give 
you  a  year,  even  if  he  hesitates  about  a 


30  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

month,  make  one  brave  push,  see  what 
can  be  finished  in  a  week.  .  .  .  All 
who  have  meant  good  work  with  their 
whole  heart  have  done  good  work,  al- 
though they  may  die  before  they  have 
the  time  to  sign  it.  .  .  .  Life  goes 
down  with  a  better  grace  foaming  in  full 
tide  over  a  precipice,  than  miserably 
struggling  to  an  end  in  sand}^  deltas." 
That,  he  explains,  is  the  true  meaning 
of  the  saying  about  those  whom  the  gods 
love.  At  whatever  age  death  may  come, 
the  man  who  dies  so  dies  young. 

This  gallant  spirit,  combined  with  ex- 
traordinarily quick  and  vivid  sj^mpathy, 
gives,  I  think,  a  main  secret  of  the  charm 
which  endeared  Stevenson  both  to  friends 
and  readers.  His  writings  showed  any- 
thing but  the  insensibility  to  human  sor- 
rows of  the  jovial,  full-blooded  athlete. 
It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  if  he 
did  not  ignore  the  darker  side  of  things. 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  31 

he  disliked  dwelling  upon  it  or  admitting 
the  necessity  of  surrender  to  melancholy, 
or  even  incorporating  such  thoughts  in 
your  general  view  of  life.  In  some  of 
his  early  work,  especially  in  Ordered 
South,  his  first  published  essay,  and  in 
Will  d'  the  Mill,  a  different  note  of  senti- 
ment is  sounded.  The  invalid  ordered 
south  is  inclined  to  console  himself  by  re- 
flecting that  he  is  ''  one  too  many  in  the 
world."  This,  says  Stevenson  in  a  later 
note,  is  a  '*  very  youthful  view."  As 
prolonged  life  brings  more  interests,  the 
thought  that  we  cannot  play  out  our  part 
becomes  more,  not  less,  painful.  To 
some  of  us,  I  fear,  every  year  that  we  live 
only  emphasises  our  insignificance.  To 
Stevenson  such  resignation  savoured  of 
cowardice.  Will  d  the  Mill  is  certainly 
one  of  his  most  finished  and  exquisite 
pieces  of  work.  He  told  Mr.  Balfour 
that  it  was  written  as  an  "  experiment." 


32  IRobert  Uouis  Stevenson 

His  own  favourite  doctrine  was  that  "acts 
may  be  forgiven,  but  not  even  God  can 
forgive  the  hanger  back";  Will  o'  the 
Mill  w^as  written  "  to  see  what  could  be 
said  in  support  of  the  opposite  theory." 
The  essay  suggests  the  influence  of  Haw- 
thorne and  shows  a  similar  skill  in  sym- 
bolising a  certain  mood.  It  implies,  no 
doubt,  a  capacity  for  so  far  assuming  the 
mood  as  to  make  it  harmonious  or  self- 
consistent;  but  I  cannot  perceive  that  it 
makes  it  attractive.  Translated  into 
vulgar  realism.  Will  would  be  a  stout 
innkeeper,  who  will  not  risk  solid  comfort 
by  marrying  the  girl  whom  he  likes.  He 
hardly  loves  her.  He  prefers  to  help  his 
guests  to  empty  his  cellar.  Will  lives  in 
so  vague  a  region  that  we  do  not  test  him 
as  we  should  in  real  life;  but,  after  all, 
the  story  affects  me  less  as  an  apology 
than  as  a  satire.  If  that  be  really  all 
that  can  be  said  for  the  prudential  view 


IRobert  %oiii6  Stevenson  33 

of  life,  it  is  surely  as  contemptible  as 
Stevenson  thought  the  corresponding 
practice.  He  has  a  little  grudge  against 
Matthew  Arnold,  whose  general  merits 
he  acknowledges,  for  having  introduced 
him  to  Obermann,  for  in  Obermann  he 
finds  only  ''  inhumanitj^"  The  contrast 
is  shown,  as  Professor  Raleigh  points  out, 
by  Arnold's  poem  on  the  Grande  Char- 
treuse and  Stevenson's  Our  Lady  of  the 
Snows.  Arnold  is  tempted  for  the  time 
to  seek  peace  among  the  recluses,  though 
he  cannot  share  their  belief.  Stevenson 
"  treats  them  "  to  a  sharp  remonstrance. 
He  prefers  to  be  ''  up  and  doing."  He 
warns  them  that  the  Lord  takes  delight 
in  deeds,  and  approves  those  who — 

Still  with  laughter,  song  and  shout. 
Spin  the  great  wheel  of  earth  about. 


Perhaps,"  he  concludes, 
3 


34  IRobert  Xoiiis  Stevenson 

Our  cheerful  general  on  high 
"With  careless  look  may  pass  you  by. 

If  I  had  to  accept  either  estimate  as 
complete  I  should  agree  with  Stevenson. 
Yet  Stevenson's  attitude  shows  his  limita- 
tions. The  sentiment  which  makes  men 
ascetic  monks;  the  conviction  of  the  cor- 
ruption of  mankind,  of  the  futility  of  all 
worldly  pleasures;  the  renunciation  of 
the  active  duties  of  life ;  and  the  resolute 
trampling  upon  the  flesh  as  the  deadly 
enemy  of  the  spirit,  may  strike  us  as 
cowardly  and  immoral,  or  at  best  repre- 
sents Milton's  "fugitive  and  cloistered 
virtue."  Still  it  is  a  mood  which  has 
been  so  conspicuous  in  mau}^  periods  that 
it  is  clearly  desirable  to  recognise  what- 
ever appeal  it  contained  to  the  deeper  in- 
stincts of  humanity.  Matthew  Arnold 
recurred  fondly  but  provisionally  to  the 
peacefulness  and  harmony  of  the  old 
order  of  conception,  though  he  was  as 


IRobert  Xouls  Stevenson  35 

convinced  as  anyone  that  it  rested  on  a 
decayed  foundation.  The  enlightenment 
of  the  species  is,  of  course,  desirable,  and 
may  lead  ultimately  to  a  more  satisfactory 
.solution ;  but  for  the  moment  its  destruc- 
tive and  materialising  tendencies  justify 
a  tender  treatment  of  the  survival  of  the 
old  ideal.  Stevenson  was  no  bigot,  and 
could  most  cordially  admire  the  Catholic 
spirit  as  embodied  in  the  heroism  of  a 
Father  Damien.  But  when  it  took  this 
form  of  simple  renunciation  it  did  not 
appeal  to  him.  In  fact,  it  corresponds  to 
the  kind  of  pessimism  which  was  radically 
uncongenial.  Life,  for  him,  is,  or  can  be 
made,  essentially  bright  and  full  of  inter- 
est. He  agrees  with  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer 
that  it  is  a  duty  to  be  happy ;  and  to  be 
happy  not  by  crushing  your  instincts  but 
by  finding  employment  for  them.  Con- 
fined to  his  bed  and  sentenced  to  silence, 
he  could  still  preserve  his  old  boyishness; 


36  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

even  his  childish  amusements.  "  We 
grown  people,"  he  says  in  an  essaj^  "can 
tell  ourselves  a  stor}^,  give  and  take 
strokes  till  the  bucklers  ring,  ride  far  and 
fast,  marry,  fall,  and  die;  all  the  while 
sitting  quietly  by  the  fire  or  lying  prone 
in  bed" — whereas  a  child  must  have  a 
toy  sword  or  fight  with  a  bit  of  furniture. 
Indeed,  he  was  not  above  toys  in  later 
days.  He  spent  a  large  part  of  one 
winter,  as  Mr.  Balfour  tells  us,  building 
with  toy  bricks;  and  beginning  to  join  in 
a  schoolboy's  amusement  of  tin  soldiers, 
developed  an  elaborate  "war  game" 
which  occupied  many  hours  at  Davos. 

We  can  understand  wh}'  Sj^monds 
called  him  "sprite."  The  amazing 
vitality  which  kept  him  going  under  the 
most  depressing  influences  was  combined 
with  the  "sprite's"  capricious  and,  to  most 
adults,  unintelligible  modes  of  spending 
superfluous  energy.     Whatever  he  took 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  37 

up,  serious  or  trifling, —  novel  writing, 
childish  toys,  or  even,  for  a  time,  political 
agitation, — he  threw  his  whole  soul  into 
it  as  if  it  were  the  sole  object  of  existence. 
He  impressed  one  at  first  sight  as  a  man 
whose  nerves  were  always  in  a  state  of 
over-tension.  Baxter  says  that  Cromwell 
was  a  man  "  of  such  a  vivacity,  hilarity, 
and  alacrity  as  another  man  hath  when 
he  hath  drunken  a  cup  too  much."  * 
Stevenson  —  not  very  like  Cromwell  in 
other  respects — seemed  to  find  excitement 
a  necessity  of  existence.  He  speaks  to  a 
correspondent  of  the  timidity  of  j^outh. 
"  I  was,"  he  says,  ''  a  particularly  brave 
boy  " — ready  to  plunge  into  rash  adven- 
tures, but  **  in  fear  of  that  strange,  blind 
machinery  in  which  I  stood.  I  fear  life 
still,"  he  adds,  and  ''that  terror  for  an 
adventurer  like  nn^self  is  one  of  the  chief 

*  A  similar  remark  was  made  about  Ninon  de 
rEuclos.     They  make  a  queer  trio. 


38  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

joys  of  living."  Terror  keeps  one  wide 
awake  and  highly  strung.  Inextinguish- 
able playfulness,  with  extraordinary 
quickness  of  sympathy;  an  impulsive- 
ness which  means  accessibility  to  every 
generous  and  heroic  nature;  and  a  brave 
heart  in  a  feeble  body,  ought  to  be,  as 
the}^  are,  most  fascinating  qualities.  But 
it  is  true  that  they  impl}^  a  limitation. 
So  versatile  a  nature,  glancing  off  at 
every  contact,  absorbed  for  the  moment 
by  every  impulse,  has  not  much  time  for 
listening  to  the  "Cherub  Contemplation." 
Stevenson  turns  from  "  the  painful  aspects 
of  life,"  not  from  the  cowardice  which  re- 
fuses to  look  one  in  the  face,  but  from  the 
courage  which  manages  not  to  turn  us  a 
counter-irritant.  His  "  view  of  life,"  he 
saj^s,  "  is  essentially  the  comic  and  the 
romanticall}^  comic."  He  loves,  as  he 
explains,  the  comedy  "  which  keeps  the 
beauty  and  touches  the  terrors  of  life"; 


TRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  39 

which  tells  its  story  * '  not  with  the  one 
eye  of  pity  but  with  the  two  of  pit}^  and 
mirth."  We  should  arrange  our  little 
drama  so  that,  without  ignoring  the  tragic 
element,  the  net  outcome  ma}^  be  a  state 
of  mind  in  which  the  terror  becomes,  as 
danger  became  to  Nelson,  a  source  of 
joyous  excitement. 

What  I  have  so  far  said  has  more  direct 
application  to  the  essayist  than  to  the 
novelist ;  and  to  most  readers,  I  suppose, 
the  novelist  is  the  more  interesting  of  the 
two.  As  an  essayist,  however,  Stevenson 
becomes  an  unconscious  critic  of  the 
stories.  The  essays  define  the  point  of 
view  adopted  by  the  storj^- teller.  One 
quality  is  common  to  all  his  writings. 
The  irrepressible  3'outhfulness  must  be 
remembered  to  do  justice -to  the  essays. 
We  must  not  ask  for  deep  thought  em- 
ployed upon  long  experience;  or  expect 
to  be  impressed,  as  we  are  impressed  in 


40  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

reading  Bacon,  by  aphorisms  in  which 
the  wisdom  of  a  lifetime  seems  to  be  con- 
centrated. We  admire  the  quick  feehng, 
the  dexterity  and  nimbleness  of  intellect. 
The  thought  of  *'  Crabbed  Age  and 
Youth"  is  obvious  enough,  but  the  per- 
formance reminds  us  of  Robin  Oig  in 
Kidnapped.  He  repeated  the  air  played 
by  Alan  Breck,  but  ''with  such  ingenuity 
and  sentiment,  with  so  odd  a  fanc}'-  and 
so  quick  a  knack  in  the  grace-notes  that 
I  was  amazed  to  hear  him."  Stevenson's 
"  grace- notes  "  give  fresh  charm  to  the 
old  theme.  The  critical  essaj's,  again, 
may  not  imply  a  very  wide  knowledge  of 
literature  or  familiarity  with  orthodox 
standards  of  judgment.  They  more  than 
atone  for  any  such  defects  by  the  fresh- 
ness and  the  genuine  ring  of  youthful 
enthusiasm.  I  am  hopelessly  unable,  for 
example,  to  appreciate  Walt  Whitman. 
Stevenson  himself  only  regretted  that  he 


IRobert  Xouls  Stevenson  41 

had  qualified  his  enthusiasm  by  noticing 
too  pointedly  some  of  his  author's  short- 
comings. The  shortcomings  still  stick 
in  my  throat;  but  if  I  cannot  catch  the 
enthusiasm  my  dulness  is  so  far  enlight- 
ened that  I  can  partly  understand  why 
Whitman  fascinated  Stevenson  and  other 
good  judges.  That,  at  least,  is  so  much 
clear  gain.  To  read  Stevenson's  criticisms 
is  like  revisiting  a  familiar  country  with 
a  young  traveller  who  sees  it  for  the  first 
time.  He  probably  makes  some  remarks 
that  we  have  heard  before;  but  he  is 
capable  of  such  a  thrill  of  surprise  as 
Keats  received  from  Chapman's  Homer. 

The  "  love  of  youth,"  says  Mr.  Henry 
James  in  an  admirable  essay,  "  is  the  be- 
ginning and  end  of  Stevenson's  message." 
Mr.  James  was  writing  before  Stevenson's 
last  publications,  and  was  thinking  spe- 
cially perhaps  of  Treasure  Island.  Now 
to  me,  I  confess, — for  I  fear  that  it  is  a 


42  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

confession,  —  Treasure  Island  is  the  one 
story  which  I  can  admire  without  the 
least  qualification  or  reserve.  The  aim 
may  not  be  the  highest,  but  it  is  attained 
with  the  most  thorough  success.  It  may 
be  described  as  a  "message  "  in  the  sense 
that  it  appeals  to  the  boyish  element. 
Stevenson  has  described  the  fit  of  inspira- 
tion in  which  he  wrote  it.  He  had  a 
schoolboy  for  audience;  his  father  be- 
came a  schoolboy  to  collaborate;  and 
when  published  it  made  schoolboys  of 
Gladstone  and  of  the  editor  of  the  *'  cyn- 
ical ' '  Satui'day  Reviezv.  We  believe  in  it 
as  we  believe  in  Robinson  Crusoe.  My 
only  trouble  is  that  I  have  always  thought 
that,  had  I  been  in  command  of  the  His- 
paniola,  I  should  have  adopted  a  different 
line  of  defence  against  the  conspirators. 
My  plan  would  have  spoilt  the  story,  but 
I  regret  the  error  as  I  regret  certain  real 
blunders   w'hich  were  supposed  to  have 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  43 

changed  the  course  of  history.  I  have 
always  wondered  that,  after  such  a  proof 
of  his  powers  of  fascination,  Stevenson 
should  only  have  achieved  full  recognition 
by  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  That  book, 
we  are  told,  was  also  written  in  a  fit  of 
inspiration,  suggested  by  dreaming  a 
"  fine  bogey  tale."  The  public  liked  it 
because  it  became  an  allegory — a  circum- 
stance, I  fear,  which  does  not  attract  me. 
But  considered  as  a  "bogey  tale,"  able 
to  revive  the  old  thrill  of  delicious  horror 
in  one  who  does  not  care  for  psychical  re- 
search, it  has  the  same  power  of  carrying 
one  away  by  its  imaginative  intensity. 
These  masterpieces  in  their  own  way  sug- 
gest one  remark.  Mr.  Balfour  points  out 
that  Stevenson  did  an  enormous  quantity 
of  work,  considering  not  only  his  ill- 
health,  but  the  fact  that  he  often  worked 
very  slowly,  that  he  destroyed  many 
sketches,     and    that    he    rewrote    some 


44  IRobert  Xouts  Stevenson 

articles  as  often  as  seven  or  eight  times. 
Thanks  to  his  "dire  industry,"  as  he 
said  himself,  he  had  "  done  more  with 
smaller  gifts"  (one  must  excuse  the 
modest  formula),  "  than  almost  any  man 
of  letters  in  the  world."  This  restless 
energ3%  however,  did  not  mean  persistent 
labour  upon  one  task;  but  a  constant 
alternation  of  tasks.  When  inspiration 
failed  him  for  one  book,  he  took  up  an- 
other, and  waited  for  the  fit  to  return. 
One  result  is  that  there  is  often  a  want 
of  continuity,  when  his  stories  do  not,  as 
in  Treasure  Island,  represent  a  single  un- 
interrupted effort.  Kidnapped,  for  ex- 
ample, is  made  up  of  two  different  stories, 
and  The  Wrecker  is  a  curious  example 
of  piecing  together  heterogeneous  frag- 
ments. Moreover,  a  good  deal  of  the 
work  is  the  product  of  a  feebler  exercise 
of  the  fancy  intercalated  between  the 
general  fits   of   inspiration.     The  unde- 


IRobcrt  Xouis  Stevenson  45 

niably  successful  books,  where  he  has 
thrown  himself  thoroughly  into  the  spirit 
of  the  story,  stand  out  among  a  good 
deal  of  very  inferior  merit.  I  will  con- 
fine myself  to  speaking  of  the  four  Scot- 
tish novels  which  appear  to  be  accepted 
as  his  best  achievements,  and  to  endeav- 
ouring to  point  out  what  was  the  proper 
sphere  of  his  genius. 

They  represent  a  development  of  the 
Treasure  Islajid  method.  He  began  Kid- 
napped as  another  book  for  boys,  and  the 
later  stories  may  be  classed  for  some 
purposes  with  the  Waverley  series.  Ste- 
venson was  fond  of  discussing  the  classifi- 
cation of  novels.  He  contrasts  the  ' '  novel 
of  adventure,"  the  novel  of  character, 
and  the  dramatic  novel.  Properly  speak- 
ing, this  is  not  a  classification  of  radically 
different  species,  but  an  indication  of  the 
different  sources  of  interest  upon  which 
a  novelist  may  draw.     ' '  x\dventure  ' '  need 


46  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

not  exclude  '  *  character. ' '  A  perfect 
novel  might  accept,  with  a  change  of 
name,  Mr.  Meredith's  title.  The  Ordeal  of 
Richard  Fever  el.  The  facts  are  interest- 
ing, because  they  show  character  in  the 
crucible;  and  the  character  displa3'S  itself 
most  forcibly  by  the  resulting  action.  A 
complete  fusion,  however,  is  no  doubt 
rare,  and  requires  consummate  art. 
Treasui'e  Island,  of  course,  is  a  pure  novel 
of  adventure.  It  satisfies  what  he  some- 
where describes  as  the  criterion  of  a  good 
"  romance."  The  writer  and  his  readers 
throw  themselves  into  the  events,  enjoy 
the  thrilling  excitement,  and  do  not 
bother  themselves  with  questions  of  psy- 
chology. Tj^asure  Islaiid^  indeed,  con- 
tains Silver,  who,  to  my  mind,  is  his  most 
successful  hero.  But  Silver  incarnates 
the  spirit  in  which  the  book  is  to  be  read; 
the  state  of  mind  in  which  we  accept 
genial  good  humour  as  a  complete  apology 


IRobert  Xoufs  Stevenson  47 

for  cold-blooded  murder.  Piracy  is  for 
the  time  to  be  merely  one  side  of  the 
game;  and  in  a  serious  picture  of  human 
life,  which  of  course  is  out  of  our  sphere, 
we  should  have  required  a  further  attempt 
to  reconcile  us  to  the  psychological  mon- 
strosity. In  the  later  stories  we  assume 
that  the  adventurers  are  to  be  themselves 
interesting  as  well  as  the  adventure. 
Still,  the  story  is  to  hold  the  front  place. 
We  may  come  to  be  attracted  to  the  pro- 
blems of  character  presented  by  the  au- 
thor, but  the  development  of  the  story 
must  never  for  a  moment  be  sacrificed  to 
expositions  of  the  sentiments.  We  must 
not  expect  from  Stevenson  such  reflec- 
tions as  Thackeray  indulges  upon  the 
''Vanity  of  Vanities,"  or  a  revelation, 
such  as  George  Kliot  gives  in  The  Mill  o?i 
the  Floss,  of  the  inner  life  of  the  heroine. 
Either  method  may  be  right  for  its  own 
purpose;  and  I  mean  so  far  only  to  de- 


48  IRobert  Xoui4i  Stevenson 

fine,  not  to  criticise,  Stevenson's  purpose. 
It  is  not  only  possible  to  tell  a  story  in 
Stevenson's  manner,  "cutting  off  the 
flesh  off  the  bones"  of  his  stories,  as  he 
says,  and  yet  to  reveal  the  characters; 
but  critics  who  object  to  all  intrusions  of 
the  author  as  commentator  hold  this  to 
be  the  most  legitimate  and  effective 
method.  Here,  however,  the  limitation 
means  something  more  than  a  difference 
of  method. 

I  do  not  think,  to  speak  frankly,  that 
any  novelist  of  power  comparable  to  his 
has  created  so  few  living  and  attractive 
characters.  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin  confesses 
to  having  been  for  a  time  blinded  to  the 
imaginative  force  of  the  Beach  of  Falesa 
by  his  dislike  to  the  three  wretched 
heroes.  One  is  deservedly  shot,  and  the 
two  others,  credited  with  some  redeeming 
points,  lose  whatever  interest  they  pos- 
sessed when  they    accept   conversion   to 


IRobcrt  Xouis  Stevenson  49 

avoid  death  from  a  missionary's  revolver. 
However  vivid  the  scenery,  I  cannot  fol- 
low the  fate  of  such  wretches  with  a  pre- 
tence of  sympathy.  There  is  a  similar 
drawback  about  the  Master  of  Ballantrae. 
The  younger  brother,  who  is  blackmailed 
by  the  utterly  reprobate  Master,  ought 
surely  to  be  interesting  instead  of  being 
simply  sullen  and  dogged.  In  the  later 
adventures,  we  are  invited  to  forgive  him 
on  the  ground  that  his  brain  has  been 
affected;  but  the  impression  upon  me  is 
that  he  is  sacrificed  throughout  to  the  in- 
terests of  the  story.  He  is  cramped  in 
character  because  a  man  of  any  real 
strength  would  have  broken  the  meshes 
upon  which  the  adventure  depends.  The 
curious  exclusion  of  women  is  natural  in 
the  purely  boyish  stories,  since  to  a  boy 
woman  is  simply  an  incumbrance  upon 
reasonable  modes  of  life.  When  in  Ca- 
triona  Stevenson  introduces  a  love-story, 


50  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

it  is  still  unsatisfactory,  because  David 
Balfour  is  so  much  of  the  undeveloped 
animal  that  his  passion  is  clumsy,  and 
his  charm  for  the  girl  unintelligible.  I 
cannot  feel,  to  say  the  truth,  that  in  any 
of  these  stories  I  am  really  living  among 
human  beings  with  whom,  apart  from 
their  adventures,  I  can  feel  any  very 
lively  affection  or  antipathy.  Mr.  Bal- 
four praises  Stevenson  for  his  sparing 
use  of  the  pathetic.  That  is  to  apologise 
for  a  weakness  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
not  the  opposite  weakness.  It  is  quite 
true  that  an  excessive  use  of  pathos  is 
offensive,  but  it  is  equally  true  that  a 
power  of  appealing  to  our  sympathies  by 
genuine  pathos  is  a  mark  of  the  highest 
power  in  fiction.  The  novelist  has  to 
make  us  feel  that  it  is  a  necessity,  not  a 
mere  luxury,  that  he  is  forced  to  weep, 
not  weeping  to  exhibit  his  sensibility;  but 
to  omit  it  altogether  is  to  abnegate  one  of 


IRobert  Xouts  Stevenson  51 

his  chief  functions.  That  Stevenson's 
feelings,  far  from  being  cold,  were  ab- 
normally keen,  can  be  doubted  by  no 
one;  but  his  view  of  fiction  keeps  him 
out  of  the  regions  in  which  pathos  is  ap- 
propriate. Any  way,  I  feel  that  there  is 
a  whole  range  of  sentiment  familiar  to 
other  writers  which  Stevenson  rarely  en- 
ters or  even  touches. 

The  character  to  which  I  am  generally 
referred  as  a  masterpiece  is  that  of  Alan 
Breck.  Mr.  Henry  James  speaks  of  that 
excellent  Highlander  as  a  psychological 
triumph,  and  regards  him  as  a  study  of 
the  passion  for  glory.  Mr.  James  speaks 
with  authority;  and  I  will  admit  that  he 
is  a  very  skilful  combination  of  the  hero 
and  the  braggart — qualities  which  are 
sometimes  combined,  as  they  were  to 
some  degree  in  Nelson  and  Wolfe. 
Somehow,  perhaps  because  I  am  not  a 
Gael,   I  can  never  feel  that  he  is  fully 


52  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

alive.  He  suggests  to  me  the  artist's 
study,  not  the  man  who  appeals  to  us  be- 
cause his  creator  has  really  thrown  him- 
self unreservedly  into  the  part.  When  I 
compare  him,  for  example,  with  Dugald 
Dalgetty  (I  must  venture  a  comparison 
for  once)  he  seems  to  illustrate  the  differ- 
ence between  skilful  construction  and 
genial  intuition.  He  may  suggest  one 
other  point.  Scott  was  for  Stevenson  the 
*  *  King  of  the  Romanticists. ' '  Romance, 
as  understood  by  Scott,  meant  among 
other  things  the  attempt  to  revive  a  pic- 
ture of  old  social  conditions.  He  was 
interested,  in  his  own  phraseology,  in  the 
contrast  between  ancient  and  modern 
manners,  and  his  favourite  periods  are 
those  in  which  the  feudal  ideals  came  into 
conflict  with  the  more  modern  commercial 
state.  This  interest  often  interferes  with 
his  art  as  a  story-teller.  The  hero  of 
Waverley,  for  example,   is  a  mere  walk- 


IRobert  ILoiiis  Stevenson  53 

ing  letter  of  introduction  to  Fergus  Mac- 
Ivor,  the  tj^pe  of  a  chief  of  a  clan  modified 
by  modern  civilisation.  The  story  halts 
in  order  to  give  us  a  full  portrait  of  the 
state  of  things  in  which  a  semi-barbarous 
order  was  confronted  with  the  opposing 
forces.  Scott,  in  fact,  began  from  a  pro- 
found interest  in  the  social  phenomena 
(to  use  a  big  word)  around  him.  He  was 
full  of  the  legends,  the  relics  of  the  old 
customs  and  ways  of  thought,  but  was 
also  a  lawyer  and  a  keen  politician.  His 
story-telling  often  represents  a  subordi- 
nate aim.  Stevenson  just  reverses  the 
process.  He  started  as  an  *'  artist,"  ab- 
normally sensitive  to  the  qualities  of  style 
and  literary  effect  to  w^hich  Scott  was  au- 
daciously indifferent.  His  first  interest 
is  in  any  scene  or  story  which  will  fit  in 
with  his  artistic  purposes.  Life  swarmed 
with  themes  for  romance,  as  rivers  are 
made  to  supply  canals.     The  attitude  is 


54  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

illustrated  by  his  incursions  into  politics. 
He  was  stirred  to  wrath  by  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's desertion  (as  he  thought  it)  of 
Gordon,  and  could  not  afterwards  write 
a  letter  to  the  guilty  statesman  because 
he  would  have  had  to  sign  himself  * '  Your 
fellow-criminal  in  the  sight  of  God." 
He  was  roused  by  the  boycotting  of  the 
Curtin  family  to  such  a  degree  that  he 
could  scarcel}^  be  withheld  from  settling 
on  their  farm  to  share  their  dangers  and 
stir  his  countrymen  to  a  sense  of  shame. 
His  righteous  indignation  in  the  case  of 
Father  Damien,  and  the  zeal  with  which 
he  threw  himself  into  the  Samoan  trou- 
bles, are  equally  in  character.  The  small 
scale  of  the  Samoan  business  made  it  a 
personal  question.  He  came  to  the  con- 
clusion, however,  that  politics  meant 
"  the  darkest,  most  foolish,  and  most 
random  of  human  employments,"  and 
though  he  had  an  aversion  to  Gladstone, 


IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson  55 

had  no  definite  political  creed.  Political 
strife,  that  is,  only  touched  him  when 
some  individual  case  appealed  to  the 
chivalrous  sentiment. 

In  the  same  way  the  story  of  the  clans 
interests  him  by  its  artistic  capabilities. 
The  flight  of  Alan  Breck  gave  an  oppor- 
tunity, seized  with  admirable  skill,  for  a 
narrative  of  exciting  adventure;  and  he 
takes  full  advantage  of  picturesque  figures 
in  the  history  of  his  time.  But  one  pe- 
culiarity is  significant.  The  adventure 
turns  upon  a  murder  which,  according  to 
him,  was  not  committed,  though  certainly 
not  disapproved,  by  Alan  Breck.  Now, 
complicity  in  murder,  or,  let  us  say, 
homicide,  is  a  circumstance  of  some  im- 
portance. Before  landlord-shooting  is 
regarded  as  a  venial  or  a  commendable 
practice  we  ought  to  be  placed  at  the 
right  point  of  view  to  appreciate  it.  We 
cannot  take  it  as  easily  as  Mr.  Silver  took 


56  IRobert  Xouis  Stevenson 

piracy.  We  should  see  enough  of  the 
evictions  or  of  the  social  state  of  the 
clansmen  to  direct  our  sympathies.  No 
doubt  if  Stevenson  had  insisted  upon 
such  things,  he  would  have  written  a 
different  book.  He  would  have  had  to 
digress  from  the  adventures  and  to  intro- 
duce characters  irrelevant  in  that  sense, 
who  might  have  been  types  of  the  classes 
of  a  semi -civilised  societ3\  Perhaps  the 
pure  story  of  adventure  is  a  better  thing. 
I  only  say  that  it  involves  the  omission 
of  a  great  many  aspects  of  life  which 
have  been  the  main  pre-occupation  of 
novelists  of  a  different  class.  Stevenson 
once  told  Mr.  Balfour  that  a  novelist 
might  devise  a  plot  and  find  characters 
to  suit,  or  he  might  rev^erse  the  process; 
or  finally,  he  might  take  a  certain  atmo- 
sphere and  get  "  both  persons  and  actions 
to  express  it. "  He  wrote  the  Merry  Men 
as  embodying  the  sentiment  caused  by  a 


IRobcrt  Xouis  Stevenson  57 

sight  of  a  Scottish  island.  That,  indeed, 
is  an  explanation  of  some  of  his  most  skil- 
ful pieces  of  work,  and  the  South  Seas  as 
well  as  his  beloved  country  gave  ma- 
terials for  such  "  impressionist"  pictures. 
But  besides  the  atmosphere  of  scenery, 
there  is  what  may  be  called  the  social 
atmosphere.  To  reproduce  the  social  at- 
mosphere of  a  past  epoch  is  the  aim — gen- 
erally missed — of  the  historical  novelist; 
but  it  is  the  prerogative  of  the  more 
thoughtful  novelist  to  set  before  you  in 
concrete  types,  not  only  personal  charac- 
ter, but  the  moral  and  intellectual  idio- 
syncrasies of  the  epoch,  whether  remote 
or  contemporary.  The  novelist  is  not  to 
lecture;  but  the  great  novels  give  the 
very  age  and  body  of  the  time  "  its  form 
and  feature."  I  will  give  no  instances 
because  they  would  be  superfluous  and 
also  because  they  would  suggest  a  com- 
parison which  I  would  rather  exclude  as 


58  IRobcrt  Xouis  Stevenson 

misleading.     That  is  the  element  which 
is  absent  from  Stevenson's  work. 

The  affection  which  Stevenson  inspires 
needs  no  justification.  The  man's  extra- 
ordinary gallantr}^  his  tender-hearted- 
ness, the  chivalrous  interest  so  easily- 
aroused  by  any  touch  of  heroism,  the 
generosity  shown  in  his  hearty  apprecia- 
tion of  possible  rivals,  are  beyond  praise. 
His  rapid  glances  at  many  aspects  of  life 
show  real  insight  and  singular  delicacy, 
a  sensibility  of  moral  instinct,  and  the 
thought  is  expressed  or  gentl}'  indicated 
with  the  most  admirable  literary  tact. 
The  praise  of  versatility  again  is  justified 
by  the  variety  of  themes  which  he  has 
touched,  always  with  vivacity  and  often 
with  a  masterl}^  handling  within  certain 
limits.  When  panegyrics,  dwelling  upon 
these  topics,  have  been  most  unreservedly 
accepted,  it  is  a  mistake  to  claim  incom- 
patible   merits.      The    **  Bohemian,"  — 


IRobert  %oms  Stevenson  59 

taking  Stevenson's  version  of  the  charac- 
ter,— the  man  who  looks  from  the  outside 
upon  the  ordinary  humdrum  citizen,  may 
be  a  very  fascinating  personage;  but  he 
really  lacks  something.  Delighted  with 
the  exceptional  and  the  picturesque,  he 
has  less  insight  into  the  more  ordinary 
and,  after  all,  most  important  springs  of 
action.  The  excitable  temperament,  try- 
ing to  stir  every  moment  of  life  with  some 
thrill  of  vivid  feeling,  and  dreaming  ad- 
ventures to  fill  up  every  interstice  of 
active  occupation,  is  hardly  compatible 
with  much  reflection.  The  writer  whose 
writing  is  the  outcome  of  long  experience, 
who  has  brooded  long  and  patiently  over 
the  problems  of  life,  who  has  tried  to 
understand  the  character  of  his  fellows 
and  to  form  tenable  ideals  for  himself, 
may  not  have  accepted  any  systematic 
philosophy;  but  he  represents  the  im- 
pression made  by  life  upon  a  thoughtful 


6o  TRobert  Uouis  Stevenson 

mind,  and  has  formed  some  sort  of  co- 
herent and  often  professedly  interesting 
judgment  upon  its  merits.  He  is  some- 
times a  bore,  it  is  true;  but  sometimes, 
too,  we  have  experience  which  is  ripe 
without  being  mouldy.  The  rapid,  vivid 
**  sprite,"  the  natural  Bohemian  imping- 
ing upon  society  at  a  dozen  different 
parts,  turning  from  the  painful  aspects 
of  life,  and  from  the  first  considering  life 
as  intended  to  suggest  romance  rather 
than  romance  as  reflecting  life,  could  not 
possibly  secrete  that  kind  of  wisdom. 
He  had  a  charm  of  his  own,  and  I  do  not 
inquire  whether  it  was  better  or  worse;  I 
only  think  that  we  do  him  injustice  when 
we  claim  merits  belonging  to  a  different 
order.  His  admirers  hold  that  Weir  of 
Hcrmiston  would  have  shown  profounder 
insight  founded  upon  longer  experience. 
I  will  not  argue  the  point.  That  it  con- 
tains one  very  powerful  scene  is  unde- 


IRobert  Xouls  Stevenson  6i 

niable.  That  it  shows  power  of  rivalling 
on  their  own  ground  the  great  novelists 
who  have  moved  in  a  higher  sphere  is 
not  plain  to  me.  At  any  rate,  the  claim 
seems  to  be  a  tacit  admission  of  the  ab- 
sence of  certain  qualities  from  the  pre- 
vious work.  "  He  might  have  "  implies 
"  he  did  not."  But  I  have  said  enough 
to  indicate  what  I  take  to  be  the  right 
method  of  appreciating  Stevenson  without 
making  untenable  claims. 


5^3-  V  3l1 


B     000  014  542     5 


